Then he turned away, and found he was trembling.
Being back in this place did not frighten him in the usual sense of the word, but it made him feel as if his mind were stretched tight and plucked, as if his identity were oscillating between Arlian the mine slave and Lord Obsidian the mine owner.
"We'll go now," he said to the others, pointing up the tunnel.
Lithuil started to protest further, then thought better of it and closed his mouth before a word had emerged.
The mine guard hesitated.
"You stay here," Black told him.
He stayed, and the other six men trudged back up the passage to the surface.
Arlian and his crew ate a late supper at the inn in Deep Delving. Lithuil did not offer to feed them at his home, as might ordinarily have been expected, and Arlian did not ask; he knew that his treatment of the Old Man at the mine, satisfying as it was, had swept aside the customary etiquette. A lord who had held a subordinate at swordpoint and arbitrarily claimed the right to free the subordinate's slaves had clearly given up any claim on the usual hospitality.
This bothered Arlian not at all; he had seen quite enough of Lithuil, and preferred to eat with his own people.
The four Aritheian magicians, Thirif, Shibiel, Qulu, and Isein, sat together at one table, chattering in their own language. The guards were clustered around another three tables, while Black, Arlian, and Quickhand ate at a small one in the back corner.
As lord and master Arlian could have had his meal brought to a private room, but he preferred to eat in the main room, with the others. He did however indulge himself to the point of ordering pork chops, rather than the greasy sausage that was the inn's common fare.
As he speared a piece of pork and lifted it to his mouth he recalled the conversation in the mine, and what had become of Lampspiller; the pork suddenly seemed much less appealing.
He stuck it in his mouth anyway, chewing dutifully, and then to distract himself he glanced around the room, his gaze falling on the tables full of cheerful, talkative guards. He asked Quickhand, "How are the men we hired working out? Is it a good crew?"
Quickhand looked over his shoulder at the others, then shrugged. "They're good enough," he said. "They think you're mad, hiring so many guards for just eight wagons."
"I probably am," Arlian said reflexively.
"You've worked with these men before?" Black asked.
"Not all of them," Quickhand said. "Twenty is a big company. We have four or five I'd never met before."
"Think they'll fight, or run?" Black gulped ale after asking his question, but kept his eyes on Quickhand's face.
"Oh, fight, most of them," Quickhand said, lifting his own mug. "There's one I'm not sure about—he's the sort with a little too much imagination. He might get thinking about just how much a sword in the belly would hurt, and decide not to risk it." He sipped his own beer, and made a face. "I think this is watered."
"Probably," Arlian agreed. 'This guard you think might run—what makes you think he's over-imaginative?"
"Oh, because he's always asking questions, my lord.
That's a sure sign of someone who thinks more than most. And the questions he asks aren't the practical ones that Black or I would worry about."
"Really? What sort of questions did he ask?"
"Well, any number of questions about where we were going—were we really going all the way to Arithei? Would we stop anywhere along the way? Are there dragons in Arithei? Not bandits, mind you, or anything else—I'd already told the men when Black and I hired them that we might ran into southern magic, but he didn't ask about that, he specifically asked about dragons."
"It would seem you've become associated with dragons in the popular mind, somehow," Black remarked.
"Mmm." Arlian took another bite of pork.
"I don't know about anyone else, Lord Ari, but this fellow certainly associates you with dragons! Or maybe he's just obsessed with them. He even asked whether there were dragons sleeping in the mines here in Deep Delving."
Arlian blinked and put down his knife. There was something strange going on here—that question felt wrong, somehow. Why would anyone think there might be dragons in Deep Delving? Oh, Arlian had sometimes worried, down in the mine, that he and the other miners might break through into one of the caverns in which the dragons slept, but in truth there was no evidence at all that there were any such caverns in the area.
And why would a caravan guard ask that? Neither mines new dragons were his concern.
For that matter, why would anyone be displaying such an unhealthy interest in dragons? Usually people tried to avoid speaking of them, since too much mention of them was believed to attract, if not dragons themselves, then at least lesser forms of misfortune.
"Who is this man?" Arlian asked.
"He calls himself Post," Quickhand said, pointing at one of the guards two tables over.
Black snorted. "Post? I suppose that's meant to impress women, but the first thing it brings to my mind is whether he's commenting on his own wits."
"At least he doesn't call himself Dragon," Arlian said. "That seems to be what he prefers to worry about."
"That, and sorcery," Quickhand agreed. "I tried to explain that southern magic isn't sorcery, but he didn't seem to understand or care, and he didn't want to hear anything about the Borderlands or the Dreaming Mountains except whether there were dragons there. I wanted to hear everything the Aritheians could tell us about the route, but Post wasn't concerned with that He seems interested in the strangest things! He asked how old you really were, my lord, as if it mattered—
and as if he couldn't see for himself as much as I can."
Arlian stared at Quickhand for a moment, a suspicion forming. These odd questions were beginning to make a pattern. He turned to look at Post again.
"Which one is he?" he asked.
"There," Quickhand said. "In the blue."
Arlian studied Post as best he could from this angle, and decided that no, he didn't know the man.
"I want to talk to him," Arlian said. "Bring him to my wagon after supper."
"As you wish," Quickhand said.
Black did not speak, but cocked an eyebrow at Arlian. "I suspect," Arlian said quietly, "that this Post may have another employer, in addition to myself."
"An interesting possibility," Black said.
After they had eaten Arlian returned to his wagon—
but he paused in the door of the inn to see that Quickhand was indeed speaking to Post.
Then he turned and stepped out into the street.
The inside of the inn had been hot and damp and slightly smoky, and Arlian had expected to cool off in the night air, but he found that the weather outside was still hot and sticky, as well, despite the late hour. The sun was long since down, but no moon or stars could be seen—the sky was heavily overcast.
Nasty weather, Arlian thought as he trudged to the waiting caravan. Hot and dark...
Dragon weather.
He stopped and looked up at the sky.
Maybe he would have thought of it anyway, he told himself, or maybe Post's questions about dragons had reminded him, but yes, this was dragon weather.
He turned and looked back at the inn; men were emerging, but he could not tell who through the gloom.
He clambered up onto the driver's seat of the lead wagon and waited in the dark, not lighting the lantern that hung near his head.
He looked back at the wagon's interior, at the waiting spears and blades. In this weather they might be needed soon, he thought—and they were all here, but they might be needed in Manfort.
There was a disturbance in the street; he turned again, and saw men struggling. One man was holding another, trying to keep him from fleeing; others were standing close by, watching. The light all came from the inn behind them, so he could not see anything but black outlines; still, he thought the captor might be Quickhand, which would mean the other was probably Post. He could hear shuffling
and grunting. Someone called, "Give me a hand!"
Arlian reached down and picked up his sword from its place behind die seat. He laid the scabbard across his lap, then loosened the blade in its sheath.
Three men were holding the one now, dragging him forward.
Arlian found his firekit and lit the lantern as the men approached. Then he stood up and called, "Post, I'm not going to hurt you. Come and talk to me."
The captive looked up, and his struggles weakened.
He allowed himself to be led, rather than dragged, the rest of the way, until he stood beside the wagon. Arlian could finally see his face in the light of the lantern, and see that yes, this was Post, held by Quickhand, Stabber, and two guards Arlian didn't know by name.
"Climb up here," Arlian said, sliding over to make room. He kept the sword on his lap, his hand on the hilt.
Reluctantly, Post obeyed.
"Thank you, Quickhand," Arlian called. "You can go" Quickhand gave Post a doubtful look. "You're sure, Lord Ari?"
"I'm sure," Arlian said, shifting the sword.
The guards departed, leaving Arlian and Post alone.
Arlian looked at Post thoughtfully. He was a fair-sized man but not really large, and appeared to be getting rather old to work as a caravan guard.
But then, he wasn't really there as a guard.
"You know," Arlian said, "if you hadn't resisted coming here, you might yet have convinced me your peculiar questions were just harmless curiosity. Now, though, I'm afraid it's too late."
"What questions?" Post blustered.
"Your questions about dragons, and sorcery, and my age," Arlian said. "I take it someone's sent you to accompany me in hopes of learning something about the sorcerous uses of dragon venom."
"No one sent me," Post said resentfully.
His right hand remained on the sword hilt, but Arlian's left hand flashed out and closed on Post's throat.
He rammed the man's head back against the wagon's frame.
"I told you it's too late for that," Arlian growled. "I am not in a forgiving mood tonight, sir—my trip to the mine was unsettling, and I don't like this weather, so the discovery of your deceit, which I will generously not yet call treachery, has aggravated me a great deal.
Do not lie to me again."
He released the pressure on Post's throat.
"I didn't lie!" Post protested, when he could breathe again. "Not really." He rubbed at his neck and looked resentfully at Arlian.
"You claim no one sent you—then why are you here? Don't tell me you just wanted honest caravan work."
"No," Post said, still rubbing his neck. "You were right that I wanted to find out where you got your dragon venom, and how to use it."
"And why are you interested in dragon venom? It's poisonous stuff, you know."
"Lady Opal told me that you use it to make yourself young again."
"Lady Opal sent you?"
"Not exactly. She agreed to pay me if I bring back a sample, or even just knowledge of where you get it, but she didn't send me. I volunteered."
"Lady Opal." Arlian relaxed somewhat.
"Yes, Lady Opal," Post said. "She had wanted to send Horn, but you would have recognized him, so he suggested me."
That was nowhere near as bad a piece of news as Arlian had feared. He had worried that Post might have been a hired assassin in Lord Hardior's employ, waiting until he knew where to find the dragons before he struck, or that he might have been spying for the Duke as part of some court intrigue. He had thought that Lady Pulzera might have sent Post as her emissary to the dragons, using Arlian to find them, or that some other faction in the Dragon Society might have hired him for some esoteric reason.
It had even occurred to Arlian that someone within his own household might have betrayed him, and planted this spy among his hirelings. He had also considered the possibility that the dragons themselves had sent this man.
All in all, Lady Opal was perhaps the least frighten-ing explanation that made sense—though of course, she might be working in concert with Pulzera or Hardior.
"And did she want you to kill me when you had learned my secrets?" Arlian asked.
"No," Post said. "I know better than to fight you, my lord, or to try to ambush a sorcerer. Even if you were no sorcerer, and not a famous swordsman, just killing a caravan master surrounded by a score of honest guards—well, I wouldn't live to see my family again if I tried that. If Lady Opal wants you dead she'll have to hire someone else; I wouldn't attempt it for all the gold in Manfort."
"You show some sense, I see," Arlian said.
Post made a wordless noise.
"She lied to you, you know," Arlian said conversa-tionally. "Or at least misled you. Dragon venom doesn't make one younger. I really am as young as I appear."
"Then why does Opal want it so badly?" Post asked, apparently over the worst of his fear.
"Because it extends life," Arlian explained. "I'm only in my early twenties, yes, but there are men and women in Manfort who have lived for centuries, thanks to the dragon elixir. They age only very, very slowly—
but they do age, they never grow any younger."
"Centuries?" Post's eyes widened.
Arlian nodded. "Lord Enziet was the oldest," he said. "And Lord Wither was almost as old. Lady Opal learned about it from him."
"Lord Wither? I heard ... well, I heard you killed him, but I also heard he killed himself."
"Lord Wither took his own life," Arlian said. "The elixir has other effects besides extending life, and he feared the consequences were catching up with him."
Post did not appear convinced. "How often do you take it?" he asked. "I mean, if you're still so young, but you're going to get more ..
"I'm not," Arlian interrupted. "I told you she lied to you. This journey has nothing to do with fetching dragon venom Drink the elixir once, and the damage is done—I will never need it again. Though I'm not sure Opal believes that."
"I don't think she does," Post said. His expression seemed to add, And neither do I.
Arlian gazed at him for a moment, then asked,
"Have you spoken with the men who accompanied me to the mine today?"
"I..." Post stopped, but Arlian could read the answer in his face.
"Did they tell you what I wanted from the mine?
Did they say anything about dragons?"
"They said you offered the slaves their freedom in exchange for amethysts," Post admitted. "No one said anything about dragons." He hesitated, then added,
"They said the miners ate an overseer."
Arlian sighed. He hadn't told the guards to keep anything secret from their fellows, since he had assumed that they would all be traveling through the Dreaming Mountains together, and would see for themselves what the amethysts were for. Now, though, he feared that this fool would carry word back to Manfort that Lord Obsidian prized amethysts even more than his glassy namesake, and new rumors would spread.
"Did the slaves really eat him, or did they feed him to the dragons?" Post asked.
"There aren't any dragons in the mine," Arlian said wearily.
Again, Post's disbelief was obvious. The man really was a fool.
"Why do you want the amethysts? Do you need them for the elixir?"
"No. We need them to ..." In midsentence, Arlian decided against telling the exact truth. .. trade with the Aritheians. They prize the amethysts highly." A sudden spirit of mischief caught him, and he added,
"They believe amethysts keep dragons away, and that that's why the dragons have never ventured into Arithei—they think they're guarded by their jewelry."
He smiled as if deriding this silly fantasy. "The stones are the only thing they'll accept in trade for their magic—what else could we have that they need, after all, when half of them are wizards? And for myself, I don't care why they want them—if that's what they want, that's what they'll get."
"Do amethysts keep dragons away?" Post asked, marveling.
Arlia
n shrugged. "How would I know?" Then, in another burst of whimsy, he added, "But no one's ever seen any sign of dragons in the mine, even though it goes deep enough to reach their caverns."
Post's eyes were wide as he absorbed this nonsense.
Arlian sat back and slapped his thighs. "So, you came here because Lady Opal thought I was fetching dragon venom. I'm not. I'd suggest you go on home to Manfort and tell her so."
"Um," Post said.
"I'm afraid that under the circumstances, I cannot employ you as a caravan guard," Arlian said. "I'm sure you understand. I'll tell Quickhand to settle your pay. You can take your belongings and leave in the morning."
"Um," Post said again. "You aren't going..." His voice trailed off.
"I'm not going to punish you, or withhold your pay," Arlian said wearily. "You have committed a deception, but no actual crime, and you have carried out your duties heretofore. You are free to go." He had a horrible thought, and added, "But I would really very strongly recommend that you not attempt to follow the caravan to Arithei. I don't think you could make it across the Desolation."
"Then you really are going to Arithei again?" Post asked, startled.
"No," Arlian said, the matter suddenly settled beyond question. Up until this very moment he had still thought it might be possible, but now he was sure he could not afford to be away from Manfort for so long.
"My caravan will be going to Arithei, but I will be staying a few days here in Deep Delving, settling matters."
"Of course," Post said—-but his now familiar look of disbelief was back, more obvious than ever, and more than Arlian's fraying temper could bear.
"Go, sir," Arlian said, his hand closing on the hilt of his sword. "I have had a bellyful of you. Go back to Opal, and may both of you be damned!"
Post hastily backed away, and almost fell as he quickly clambered out of the wagon.
Arlian arose the next morning just after dawn, so that he might reach the mine before the shift change without undue hurry. When he first opened his eyes he thought that he had awoken before dawn, so dark was the sky, but then he realized that was due to thick, low-hanging clouds, and the sun was indeed up.
The Dragon Society (Obsidian Chronicles Book 2) Page 30
